


Gasping for Strength

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2019 [16]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Asphyxiation", "Broken Voice", "Hurts to Breathe", "Magicians for Sport", Alt Prompt #2, Arthur Whump, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Graphic Depictions of Strangulation, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt #19, Strangulation, god I hope I spelled that right, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 11:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21098882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2019, #19: "Asphyxiation" and Alt. #2: "Broken Voice"Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Hurts to Breathe"God, Trelawney was lucky that Arthur didn't hurt members of the gang. He would give anything to pass on the 'love', and nothing would feel better than to wring his neck.





	Gasping for Strength

Goddamned Trelawney.

Arthur didn’t even like him, but he was a member of the Gang, so Arthur felt obligated to go with Charles to help find him.

And he was glad they did, seeing how beat up he was. Arthur was no good man, but even he felt rage seeing the man bloodied and bruised, especially compared to how put together the man usually was.

But, of course, his captors managed to split before they could grab them, darting off into the corn fields, Against all of his better judgement, he and Charles took chase, lassos and guns at the ready, and, of course, they split up, going in opposite directions to catch them before they could escape.

  


“Charles?” he called,

“Here,” the man confirmed that he was fine.

Only a few minutes later, Arthur having knocked out and bound one of the trio, Charles called out, “Arthur?”

And Arthur raised his voice, “Here, Charles!”

  


Why the last two didn’t flee, he didn’t know. But they kept hiding among the cornfield, and as they searched, following the crunching of leaves beneath boots, they continued to call out, confirming that the other was safe and unharmed.

Charles got the second, a startled yell making Arthur spin and aim his gun, but Charles called out “He’s down,” and he grinned, 

“Good job,” as the man bound him, leaving him to lie on the dirt and scratchy, fallen husks.

  


He didn’t even get three steps before there was a crunch behind him. Arthur twisted, but wasn’t fast enough, a noose tightening horribly around his neck. He had the presence of mind to gasp, to take a deep breath, as the man yanked, taking him off balance and to the ground. The noose tightened, rough rope digging into his skin, and he tried, futily, to inhale, reaching up and clawing at the rope.

The man grinned above him, sneered something, but his ears were ringing, his head throbbing and feeling too small and too tight, and surely his eyes were going to pop out as he tugged, again, on the noose? His head _ throbbed_, and he couldn’t focus, oh god it _ hurt_, his head was going to pop too, and his chest was becoming tight, he tried to gasp, exhaled and tried to gasp again, making an awful croaking sound he couldn’t hear.

Black gathered at the edges of his vision, and he dug his heels into the dirt, leaving furrows as he arched his back, dropping his hands from the rope to claw at his chest, trying to relieve the tightness, his ribs were going to snap if his chest got any tighter, his lungs were going to explode—his eyes burned, vision going red, and bloody tears began to trickle down his face. He gasped, over and over, mouth gaping like a fish, blood shot eyes surrounded by petechiae beginning to roll, vaguely aware that he’d lost control of his bladder and pissed himself.

And Charles, oh, thank god, was standing in front of him. Bless him, oh bless him, but his hands were falling limp to his sides and he couldn’t make out what the man was saying, and the man with the noose stepped back, tugged, dragged him, voice far away as though Arthur were underwater, and Charles wasn’t too far away but he couldn’t hear a word he said over the loud, too loud please god someone shut it up, ringing in his ears.

  


Through his greying vision he barely made out Charles, jerking forward, and suddenly the noose went lax, still tight around his throat but just loose enough that, when he gasped, he got just that little bit of air, only a tiny, tiny amount but it was _ air_, and he reached up, clawing at the rope, trying to pull it away from his neck. Another pair of hands joined his, and he flinched away without thinking, oh god one of the others had gotten loose and was going to drag him away,

_ “... me, ..ur.” _

Charles? Oh, god, that was Charles. He squinted up at the man, feeling a blade press against his neck, and then the noose went limp and he gasped, slumping against the ground, panting and gasping, each breath easing the pain in his head, loosening the tightness in his chest. Charles pressed his hand against his shoulder, grounding him as the world slowly stopped spinning, the ringing in his ears faded away, but _ god _ his throat _ burned_, and he curled up on his side, coughing and spitting blood, wheezing so loudly that Charles cringed.

When he spoke, Charles had to lean in to hear him, and even then it was so slurred, cracked and raspy and quiet, that he could barely hear him, “Th’nk… th’nk ‘ou. ‘Ou,” he broke off, coughing, the sound crackling low in his chest, and Charles pressed his hand against his back, helping him sit up, leaning him forward to help him breathe, “‘ou,” Arthur spat blood on the ground, reached up and wiped the bloody tears from his eyes, “‘ou s’ved m’ life.” Each word hurt, speaking tore at his throat, somehow managing to hurt more than breathing, but he needed to say it.

Charles nodded, stood when it looked like Arthur was capable of it, offering his hand to pull him up and slung his arm over his shoulder, propping him up,

“Any time, brother.”


End file.
